The things we said (or I prefer to text)
by Emma Lynch
Summary: A Tumblr prompt gave me these categories which I felt could be wrapped around Seasons 2,3 and into a Season 4 of my own imagining. Throughout the significant happenings of their lives, Sherlock and Molly communicate behind 'the scenes' via text, telephone and face to face. This story tells the private words to the public scene, and how love can sometimes develop, strong and real.
1. Chapter 1

" **If the whole world was watching, I'd still dance with you,**

 **Drive highways and byways to be there with you.**

 **Over and over, the only truth,**

 **Everything comes back to you."**

 **(This Town - Niall Horan)**

* * *

 **Prologue**

There are certain people, aren't there, who punctuate our lives in ways we'd never intuit or even guess at upon our first meetings with them. If we knew, for example, that Joe Smith from the Canteen on the third floor (who gave us a free stirrer with our cappuccino and smiled when we found the exact change) was going to become our best friend's boyfriend, or our mum's kidney donor, or even our AA sponsor, then we would have treated him so differently (reverentially?) on our first meeting, wouldn't we? If the Big Issue seller on the corner of Giltspur Terrace turned out to be the woman who gave Heimlich to a person at the entrance to the hospital, and that person just happened to be my lovely future team leader who was choking on a mint imperial on his way to interview me for my first job? Things could have been so different, you see. I always buy a Big Issue from her and pass a few moments of conversation with this street vendor who used to be a doctor in her own war torn country, because without her, Mike Stamford would never have been my boss, and I would never have been introduced to the man who was going to populate my straightforward little existence with all the punctuations (and more) I could ever have anticipated, or even wished for.

Without her you see, I would never have met Sherlock Holmes.

 **~x~**

 **Chapter One: The things you said I wish you hadn't**

 _You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…_

Mycroft twists his complacent, almost waxen features into that enigmatic, slightly pitying half smile as he leaves my morgue, but doesn't stoop so low as to give an answer to the slightly desperate plea that tumbled from my mouth before I could stop it:

 _Who is she? How did Sherlock recognize her from… not her face?_

Misdirected or not, I still want to slap _his_ face as the door closes, cutting across my shame and glowing cheeks. I note my hand shakes slightly as I push hair, loose, long, cascading ( _unprofessional, Christmas hair?_ ) behind an ear and busy myself in returning my cadaver ( _Sherlock's friend? Acquaintance? Lover?_ ) back to her chilled cabinet. Dead she may be, (severe blunt force trauma causing contusions and lacerations of facial musculature and soft tissues, as well as fractures and dislocations of bony structures) but her unblemished pale body still retained a quiet elegance and dignity in death (despite abrasion; avulsion; fracture of the beauty she showed to the world) and her identity had certainly evoked something deep and indefinable from the psyche of Sherlock Holmes. He had turned so swiftly and decisively ( _my business here is done_ ) his brother had perhaps missed the tremor in his hand and the extra pallor to his skin, but I had not.

This lady, whoever she had been in life, had had enough time to affect him in a way I hadn't thought possible. I close the drawer and try to silence my garallous, ridiculous mode of thought as I prepare to leave. On days like this, when the mortuary is so very quiet ( _skeleton staff? Sorry._ ) and the dripping tap and ticking clock are the only punctuations to a silent, subterranean world, I can believe in some cataclysmic event; an apocalypse that has cleared the world of humanity and it is only I remaining. Just me, and the woman in the drawer - the woman who mattered.

Christmas Day streets are silent also; wet and dark, with enough of a chill in the air to need a pair of Argyle mittens (thanks mum) but not enough for snow or christmas card prettiness. My post-apocalyptic-ness continues as my key slides into the lock, so much so that I barely check the darkened stoop and landing as is my usual pre-unlocking, mugger-alerted ritual. Kettle on, gloves placed on radiator, soft lamplight in every room and carols on the radio take a little of the sting out of the day as I step out of my clothes and straight into the shower. It is a ritual too ( _odeur de la mort?_ Not the best bedfellow ever) and is where I do a lot of my thinking, and it is there I feel a residual sting; a deeply regrettable pang of shame and disappointment that all the hot water and honeysuckle shower gel just won't wash away. My face glows anew with the memory of his face - his drawling honeyed voice, full of barbs and careless throwaway, devastating observations, dissecting my stupid little heart like a frog in a Sixth form biology class.

 _Must be someone special then. Shade of red echoes the lipstick. Either a subconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage._

Shampoo stings my eyes as I scrunch them tightly, shutting it out.

 _Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind._

His pale eyes, appraising, deducing, derailing, as impersonal as if he looked upon a splintered door frame or a murder weapon

Or a corpse. (but seemingly, not every corpse)

But, I had never before heard Sherlock Holmes apologise for any of the manners he lacked or the tosses he failed to give for the slower thinkers he left in his wake. The hushed silence, the almost tangible embarrassment emanating from our reluctant audience hummed in the air as he leant forwards to brush my hot cheek with his soft, dry mouth (a moment of warmth from the coldest of men).

 _I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper._

And, you know, I did - I do forgive him. At that moment, I saw regret and a flicker of shame behind the mask, just as tonight in the morgue I saw a sadness, a pang of… something.

My feet are stretched out in front of me wearing orange slippers, ( _new, hideous, indecently comfortable - thanks Sarah G and Secret Santa_ ) and a fat ginger cat balances across my lap whilst I hold a very delayed glass of sherry and my mobile, garnering the courage for a festive hour of mum-chat/haranguing. Mercifully, before I can plunge headfirst into a one sided lecture entitled ' _What are you doing with your life, Molly Hooper?_ ` the thing buzzes suddenly, shocking Toby off into his corner, nearly taking the sherry with him. It's a text, but not from Mike, my mum, Sarah or Great Aunt Charlotte from Aberdeen.

 _Your assistance this evening was appreciated. Thank you. SH_

Oh. My heart beats like a timpani band as I see the sherry off in one go. Sherlock has texted me. No request, no austere, impersonal request/demand from across the void, but an unsolicited (from me at any rate) and seemingly genuine thank you. Within the space of twelve hours, I have been the recipient of an apology and a thanks from a man who sees so much, but sometimes misses everything. It really IS Christmas. So naturally, buoyed up by a second sherry and ignoring a sulking ginger tom, I type a reply:

 _Judging by the localised trauma and subsequent kinetic energy utilised, I feel a thin, probably metal pipe would have produced…_

Then, of course, I delete this and write:

 _No problem Sherlock. I was happy to help. MH_

Unfortunately, I press send before rethinking, so have to send another close on its heels:

 _I say happy, but obviously that wasn't quite the word. I am sorry Sherlock. MH_

Then there is silence and I realise inappropriate waffling wasn't really the order of the day and am about to chuck my phone on the side table when:

 _You have nothing to be sorry for. My behaviour today was inexcusable and you were more than gracious to accept my apology and assist with subsequent events at such short notice. SH_

I stare at the tiny screen for some minutes before throwing caution to the wind and firing off a reply. When, after all, would this chance ever happen again? He would close down (if it wasn't already too late) like a steel trap, like a mollusc clinging to a coral reef when the tides change, and we would be back to black (with two sugars).

 _She was a friend. MH_

No question mark - it wouldn't do to insult him with such naivety - a statement.

I pity my own ridiculousness as I put the phone down (face down? Idiot, Molly Hooper) and leave the room. I prefer to be Schrodinger - in a state of not knowing about the cat. I want him to answer, but I don`t. God, I think I'm going a little mad. Happy Christmas to all my readers.

Ping.

Less that thirty seconds.

I step back into the room, looking at the phone like it were some maleficent talisman rather than a knackered old Samsung and slowly turn it over.

 _Caring is not an advantage. SH_

Indignation (and three sherries on an empty stomach) spur me on.

 _What? That is preposterous! Caring is everything. It gives us our humanity. Who says things like that? MH_

Five seconds.

Ping.

 _Mycroft. SH_

Oh. Ah well. In for a penny.

 _He's wrong. MH_

Ping.

 _Not usually. SH_

 _This time he is. MH_

Ping.

 _All lives end. All hearts are broken. SH_

My fingers fly over the keys and to send without a secondary thought. I'm on a roll now, gathering momentum.

 _Rubbish. MH_

Ping.

 _I see. Qualify? SH_

Oh God… well, he did ask.

 _Everyday I see lives end. Every day I see hearts broken as people realise their losses are real and visceral and breathtakingly terrible. But Sherlock, that doesn't mean caring is worthless. I see bodies; lifeless and empty - just flesh, bone and cartilage - lying there. The people who cry and mourn are the ones who make those bodies into people, and their lives matter. Everyone matters, Sherlock. MH_

I sit with Toby for the next thirty four minutes, staring at a soundless television, its bright, flickering, flashing images as meaningless as unsolicited advice from a casual acquaintance, until, like a little Christmas miracle, a silvery chime cuts through the silence.

A simple, single word of an answer.

 _Yes. SH_

* * *

 **A/N: Hello there! Great to be back. Thank you for taking the time to peruse this little tale. It shall be nine chapters and I am very nerdy about regular posting! I do forget who wrote the original "Things we said when..." prompt, but I would like to thank them here.**

 **Lovely. :)**


	2. The things we said too quietly

**Chapter Two: The things we said too quietly**

 **(Molly)**

The day after Sherlock died I was sent home from work and told to 'stay there' until enquiries had been made.

I couldn't have taken the risk of running into John Watson, so I took the back entrance and a taxi I could ill afford, since looking at the cracked paving stones at the front elicited a churning in my gut I did not want to acknowledge let alone contemplate. Rain sliced oblique and dark in the morning gloom as the driver cheerfully sucked mints and hummed tunelessly along with the radio. Mercifully, taxi drivers around Bart's rarely weigh in with 'cheer up luv, it might never happen,' since a person with my current facial expression coming out of a hospital should clearly not be cajoled, however well-meant it might be. The previous occupant had, however, left a newspaper, headline upwards and I still caught the words ' _fake_ ', ' _genius_ ' and ' _suicide_ ' before my bag covered them, and I prayed the numbness of the past twenty-four hours could still protect me. Deep breath Molly Hooper. Deep breath. I've lied to everyone, so it would be quite in-keeping to carry on lying to myself.

Mycroft Holmes had assured me any 'unpleasantness' regarding the risks I had taken for his brother would be dealt with directly and I found myself with no option but to believe him, despite having trouble believing the surrealist nightmare that the past seventy-two hours had triggered. Answer machine light flashing with … eleven messages (those from my mum estimated currently at 7 out of that 11) and I fished a dead mobile out of my pocket, vowing to find the charger a little later. Perhaps. Once I've drunk an entire bottle of wine and assumed the foetal position under a duvet.

Two glasses in and I decided drinking wasn't the answer, as the numbness was wearing off in direct proportion to the alcohol consumed and I couldn't risk confronting the nebulous but insistent idea nudging towards the forefront of an exhausted brain. Pulling 14 togs of goose/duck down mix over my head would also do little to blot out the new reality in my little life: Sherlock Holmes was gone. Not dead, no. We were all perjuring ourselves and avoiding the wounded eyes of others to preserve this myth since, like the lamb, Sherlock had sacrificed his current life in order to take arms against a great big sea of troubles. After all he had given up, I suppose a few days on 'garden leave' was little enough of a price to pay.

But…

The idea bobbed up again, like a bloated corpse rising inexorably through murky waters. Sherlock was gone. Gone from his current life, perhaps forever.

And gone from me.

 **~x~**

 **(Sherlock)**

Staying overnight at my brother's London residence was, perhaps, one of the more unfortunate results of my current situation. Of the ones I could bear to think about, at least. I lie in the semi-dark, listening as rain-soaked city streets escort endless vehicles past my window. The irrigated water through enumerable tyres created soft, loquacious sounds as they passed, which should really have been soothing, but was not.

Mycroft's decor resembles its owner; overblown, with an immutable hint of regret. Who, in this day and age owns (and uses) a four-poster bed? I am fully-dressed and intend to remain so until the car comes at ten tomorrow. There is little point attempting movement or, divergently, relaxation; the former hindered by a ridiculous degree of bruising and wrenched tendons and the latter…

 _(Sherlock!)_

 _(Goodbye John.)_

 _(No. Don't-)_

Because something is a necessity should not elevate its importance towards a degree of acceptance. What I have done seemed a relevant option in the visitors suite at the Diogenes Club three months ago, but I now lie here in a purgatorial stasis of my own making, and every time I think of John Watson's face so many stories below, I want to vomit.

Turning my head, I notice the streetlight daring to steal through my brother's heavy, ludicrous red velvet curtains ( _deduction: thwarted actor, appearing to shun the limelight but forever yearning it's lure. Momentarily cheering_ ) and illuminating the metal of my mobile (new, obviously) lying across the mahogany bedside table. I wince as I reach out my hand, turning slowly across a never-ending expanse of mattress. I type in the number without hesitation, without thought.

 **~x~**

The patrol beneath my window is timed to perfection. He walks at an incredibly predictable ten paces per twenty two seconds and a circuit of the building takes just under four minutes (make of that what you will regarding my dear brother's opulence). Ingrained knowledge of overhangs and blind spots from the ground level gives me a window of approximately ninety seconds whereby a six foot male can ascend a thirty foot drop (drainpipes replaced last year - I noted the invoice) without being seen. His breathing (from observations of the past three hours) indicate a fairly heavy smoking habit which needs satiating approximately every 35 to 40 minutes, therefore I suspect an extra few minutes may be afforded to me during the next circuit. I have no interest in escape, merely an absence; a very necessary interlude. I shall be back before anyone knows I've gone. Tomorrow I leave, but not yet. Not just yet.

 **~x~**

 **(Molly)**

The moment my charger plugs in, the phone rattle, buzzes, vibrates with life. Message after message bursting through with an almost tangible impatience (if phones _can_ be impatient; they always strike me as such anyway). Obviously, my mum, Mike, possibly even Mycroft Holmes himself. I really should have plugged it in sooner. I am a stubborn girl at times. Apparently.

 _Seventeen texts._

Seventeen texts, but I only read the last one, because the last one is from a dead man.

 _I need to speak with you. SH_

Need. Want. Hope.

I hesitate for only seconds.

 _I thought you preferred to text? MH_

Instantaneously:

 _Sometimes ears are more resonant conductors of words. SH_

 _Are you in pain? MH_ (black and blue; minor lacerations; possible concussion;advice ignored)

No answer. I type again, not thinking about the coming days, months, years of silence I will have to endure, but only for the moment I now inhabit.

 _Where does it hurt, Sherlock? MH_

A moment, then a reply:

 _Everywhere. SH_

And as the mobile leaps into life, its inoffensive little ringtone shocking me to the very core, I have no time to consider my words until I hear his low, deep, unmistakable voice, so clear it could be from the next room.

"Molly."

A confirmation rather than a question.

"Oh God, Sherlock…"

He waits. He knows what I will say.

"What on earth have we done?"

And we both are silent, listening to the pulse of silence down the line, spreading out like spilt paint; inexorable, unstoppable.

I wait, because I am a very patient (as well as stubborn) girl, and I hear him breathing; so intimate, like I'm watching him dress or shave, or bathe (or something…) until he speaks, so softly it is like a huff of air, a rumble of thunder in far distant skies.

"John-" he says, then falters, a hitch in his breath, then continues. "I have betrayed the person who trusted me with his life, with everything…"

He is unstable, scarily so. He cannot afford to crumble now, because if he does, I don't think I could sustain us both, so I am strong, incalcitrant.

"You _saved_ his life. You gave him his life. He can still live normally, thanks to you."

I give him a moment, and I know he is grateful, since the tide of unaccustomed emotion is stemmed momentarily by indignance and aggravation.

"He will bloody well hate to live _normally_!" He whispers still, but harsh and uncharacteristically vulgar. "He will shrink back into enforced civilian drudgery, and it is my fault."

I cannot have self-pity, so I am harsh.

"Yes," I whisper. "Yes it is." I can hear my pulse beating in my ears, but I go on, mouthing quiet incantations into the faceless void, and Sherlock is silent, listening to me.

"But you can't have him hoping… waiting everyday for you. Watching the long-legged man on the corner of the road wearing the long coat; turn into Baker Street and Marylebone Avenue and have his heart leap into his chest when he thinks, _'yes!'_ but it isn't you. It isn't you on the carriage in front on the tube, with the dark hair and that set you have to your shoulders when you have to take public transport; and it isn't you on the Embankment when he sees Lestrade and his Blues and Twos pull up in a hurry and a tall new detective he doesn't know turns around, incomprehensive, when John taps him on the shoulder. It isn't you, Sherlock, because it might _never_ be you- " My throat is stretched and taut, like sutures stretched across my table and I take a breath. "It might never be you," I say again, almost too quietly for him to hear.

Almost.

"Yes," he whispers back, calmer now. He is himself again and I almost release a sob, because I might never again glimpse him like this - open, raw, needing comfort; needing me.

"Molly, I wonder if you could put down the phone-"

"Oh. Oh… sorry. Sorry, I do go on…" My face is a-flame with a horrendous cocktail of regret, sorrow, heartache and embarrassment.

"-go to your bathroom window-"

I stare stupidly, shaking my head to a piece of plastic.

"-and let me in."

 **(Sherlock)**

Her face is white, wide-eyed and stark in its disbelief. I feel absurd, like a conjuror who has performed one trick too many and his crowd are jaded, dazed and confused. She undoes the latch and fails to notice the tile crack sharply as my left foot steps clumsily onto it, but pulls me in, unquestioning, accepting, as she always has been. Always, always.

Regrettably, I cannot hide the wince as she helps me down and she looks me over with the same practised, professional assessment so often seen in John Watson. I say nothing as she lifts my coat, running searching, diagnostic yet gentle fingers over my shoulders, my chest and my poor ribs. I imagine my face to be a reliable indicator of the damage, but it never pays to let people know you are done in.

"I can't stay long-" I begin, wondering why her clothes seem so loose and eyes so raw, but she barely acknowledges my words and leans across me, turning on taps and igniting an ancient boiler.

"You need to get in the bath to soothe the aching. It must be killing you. Don't try and tell me otherwise. I'm fetching co-codamol, risky with your history, but I'm out of ibuprofen and horse tranquiliser at the moment."

Our eyes lock and I see deep brown resolution staring up at me.

"Then you are getting into my bed (it's bigger) and going to sleep."

"I have to get back ton-"

"No." Molly Hooper has her hand tiny, pale, healing hand upon the doorknob and I realise I am in real danger of weeping and being unable to stop, so I dip my head and start to undo buttons as she leaves, the tumultuous tumble of water punctuating the bizarre with the normal.

 **~x~**

 **(Molly)**

I texted Mycroft, I had to. He was so grateful that he barely complained. The time for admonishing his brother was long past; we all owed him too much already. He sent a man to guard the building, but I wasn't worried. Nothing would happen tonight. Sherlock would still leave by ten the next day.

I took him the tablets and some tea, both of which he consumed without question, and as he passed me the cup, his long, beautiful fingers grasped at my wrist and pulled me down to lie with him. It was nothing remotely sexual or romantic, but I lay beside him, listening as his breathing relaxed, and I held him, wrapping my arms gently around his battered body as if I could imbue some protection, some talisman of immunity for the weeks, the months, maybe the years to come.

Deep into the shadows of the night, his voice came, cracked, low and brittle.

"John has always trusted me, but Molly, I have always trusted you."

I lightly touch his humerus, his tibia, his carpal bones, as if enumerating them. His arm lies beneath my head, fingers wrapped in my hair; oddly intimate yet perfectly acceptable to us both, drawing comfort from the warmth of another human being. If I had my way, however, I should never let him go, and the thought makes me swallow as I look up, dry and hollow eyed into the darkness.

"Good," I whisper, pulling blankets higher over his exposed shoulder (the nights are cold, and they will get colder). "Good. You always can. Always."

Time ticks by and I think he sleeps, but I do not, since I cannot miss a beat of this night as I will need it to sustain me in the months to come. A sudden thought burgeons, fresh and full of hope, and I cannot help but whisper it into the silence.

"I will text you. From time to time. You never have to answer, of course, but I will send you a message so that … so that things don't seem … so _removed_." I think at first he hasn't heard me, but his fingers tighten slightly and I know he has.

But when I wake in the morning, Sherlock is gone, and all that remains is his mobile, lying mute and deserted on my bedside table.

 _ **~x~**_


	3. The things we said under the stars

**CHAPTER THREE: The things we said under the stars and in the long grass**

The moon was perfect that night.

Large, lucent.

As luscious as a gleaming opal, radiating all the glittering beams of heaven in its brightness. It loomed huge and pendulous, much larger than usual, giving the idea that it was somehow magnified by the earth's atmosphere, almost as another world encroaching on ours. Despite this being a favourite theory of Aristotle himself, my companion knew better. Some gubbins about the _visual field_ , and _angular size_ versus _physical size_ , or another soul-less explanation designed to strip the romance out of a notion, like a liberal coating of methylene chloride.

Nevertheless, we hold hands in the balmy drift of a windless night, and weave our way (a little tipsily in my case) through the multi-coloured, haphazardly arranged canvases punctuating a field already lined with giant tipis, and illuminated further by sagging ropes of glowing bulbs, combining with moon and stars to give an air of midsummer night's dream. Ignoring his warnings regarding perilous guy-ropes and ' _the smell of weed'_ , I hop with a jauntiness, bobbing through low slung branches and long, dry grass, which tickle my bare legs between flip-flop and fraying shorts. I took my daisy crown off ages ago (a wrinkled nose says a thousand words, and I do sometimes push the envelope with age-appropriate fashion choices I suppose) and I shake out my hair behind me, free as the wisps of cloud drifting past the moon.

The music was enveloping, overpowering. I had allowed myself to be immersed, almost cocooned in sound (which was more freeing than expected), where I just lay on the soft springy grass - eyes closed and fingers spread like starfish - all the more to fuel the sensory overload.

Not to think, just feel.

I find that works best for me these days.

And the picnic. So carefully chosen, so selected with my preferences in mind that an unexpected tear had welled up when he unveiled the gingham lined basket with a flourish, his face flushed with pride. Haven't I done well? Am I not everything you need?

 _(What do you need?)_

Ah, those thoughts that sometimes used to transgress the sensory overload barrier and provide the cold, harsh slap of another life, a past time of uncertainty and sadness… I don't miss them. I don't miss them at all.

He lay beside me (such patience with my self-imposed, self-indulgent silence) and offered delicious titbits from his hoard: sweet alpine strawberries sprinkled with black pepper (nicer than it sounds), tiny slices of baklava, dripping with honey and pistachio; tiny bites of salty cracker and feta, sweet grapes and tomatoes that burst on the tongue, tasting of my childhood. I opened my eyes then, rolled over and kissed him, since such devotion at my service deserves a blessing from the Queen.

"Why are you so good to me?" I say, drinking cool crisp wine that frizzles against my teeth and tastes of elderflowers.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he replies, in genuine puzzlement. Things are so simple for him, matters of the heart so cut and dried. Like a neat parcel. Like an autopsied corpse. I can never really show my damage, not because he wouldn't care but because he could never truly feel its weight. Pointless and endless, like the night sky above our heads at this very moment.

I catch his hand tighter, pulling us up short.

"Let's sit here a moment," I say, finding a crumbling, moss-covered log bathed in moonlight and therefore magical.

He looks hesitant and slightly afeared, as I knew he might.

"We-ell…"

"C'mon! I want to look up at the stars from up here. We're above the tents and it seems like the sky is everywhere."

"The tent is just over there, Molly…"

"I can't see the stars from inside the tent."

He shuffles, uncomfortable and awkward, and I know the moment is lost.

"It's ok," I say. "You go on in and sort out the sleeping bags. I'll be over in a minute."

He smiles, a combination of grateful relief and fondness, and I feel a little pang as he lopes off into the darkness. He really is so easy to understand, and what a relief that has been over the past eighteen months.

Looking up, the moon fills the sky, and I see its light coat my skin in a milky caste, a ghostly pallor, fitting for a Queen of the Night. Stars twinkle around the edges of its magnificence, affecting a kind of embarrassment as they glow in pale imitation. _'I am sorry,_ ' they whisper. _'Our friend is just so ostentatious.'_ Shucking off my flip-flops, I let the cool luxuriance of nocturnal grasses caress my bare, dusty feet. Hundreds of festival goers had worn bald the lower areas of the field, but up here, the grass had escaped this punishment and lived to serve its ruler (me). Above again. I am thrilled to see all cloud has dissipated, and Orion's belt slices across the blackness. I am rubbish at constellations, but this one I know. Blue Giants (or perhaps Dwarfs?) glow in a kind of peaceful magnitude above our earth; so fantastically far away, more huge and powerful than our own sun, yet pulsing now above my head in a kind of quiet gentility.

Indeed, the night at this very moment is so ethereal and other-worldly that there is almost as sense of inevitability when my phone beeps discreetly from the depths of my frayed denim pocket. Of course, I think, _of course._ Almost six months to the day since the last time, and something burgeons, unbidden, unwelcome yet inevitable from inside of me as I grapple in the dark, almost dropping it, shielding this man-made illumination from the world (from my tent) because… _it belongs to me._

 _Can you see the sky? SH_

A slash of night halfway across the world. The same? I do hope so. I type with a strange immediacy, as if delay would break the spell.

 _Yes. It's big and dark but for the moon and stars. I can see Orion's Belt. MH_

Six months since, like a whisper of time carried away on the breeze, for he is himself, as if no beat of time had gone by.

 _Orion? A friend of yours? SH_

I smile. He knows how little I now tolerate his affectations regarding the Solar System. Neither John or I pander to his supposed gaps in knowledge. He is Sherlock Holmes and he _knows._ Everything. Thus, I type:

 _Yes. Alnitak and his two brothers, Alnilam and Mintaka. It's so very bright and busy in the sky tonight. I hope you can see it. MH_

A few minutes, then:

 _Cold and clear. Pine forests stretching for miles. Hundreds, may as well be thousands. So very quiet and yet full of forest sounds. I know which sounds belong here Molly, which keeps me safe when the nights are long. SH_

I rack my brains, considering… Belarus? Serbia? The Black Forest? Europe, surely? I could not contemplate the vast Canadian or Alaskan wildernesses.

 _Please stop. SH_

 _Stop what? I was only thinking. MH_

 _I know. It pains me. SH_

I smile, huddling over the tiny luminescence in my own private bower of sylvian wonderment.

Then:

 _Stop smiling also. SH_

 _I'll have you know I'm perfectly miserable. MH_

I stare at my words after sending - an attempt at light-hearted gone awry, since I suddenly feel a tug at my heart and a prickle behind my eyes. _Stupid._ Stupid Molly Hooper. My pale, moonlit fingers curl around the phone, both hands cupping it in some kind of odd supplication ( _please, please, please stay safe_ ) and I am strangely jolted by the sight of the diamond, discreet and sweetly (heart-breakingly) chosen for my small fingers by a man who wants to hold them in his for the rest of his life, and am breathless, panicky…

 _I'm sitting on a log near some tipis after a rather nice festival. I am wearing denim shorts and face paint. MH_

 _I see. SH_

My heart is hammering as I bite down a rising fearfulness, but it merely makes me type faster.

 _You don't actually, but if you did, you would know I have bees and blossom over my cheekbone and have only just parted company with a crown made of daisies. MH_

I sit in the quiet of the night, knowing Tom is waiting patiently in our tent, just metres away, but I cannot move; I cannot go to my fiance until a man I used to know decides if he should care to return my text. Nonsensical texts are not held in particularly high regard by Sherlock Holmes and I fully expect a silence stretching out for another six months, and I steel myself for it, until…

 _Those three stars of the airy Giant's zone that glitter, burnished by the frosty dark... I realise your darkness is less than frosty, but a kinship of the heavens nevertheless. Goodnight Molly Hooper. SH_

And as I stare at the words of Tennyson, typed by a man in a no man's land who reaches out to me across the void whenever he might, I hold up my left hand, catching a little moonlight in its diamond as I compare it to the stars.

So you see, some of us are earth, and some of us are sky, and it really is unfair to compare the two.

 **~x~**


	4. with too many miles between us

**Chapter Four: The things we said with too many miles between us**

She's been before, but only fleetingly, and never at Christmas.

Molly Hooper cranes her slender neck, all the better to see the mullioned windows glinting softly in the setting sun as they pull up at the top of the drive. Old chimneys, she decides. You could always tell the age of a house by its chimneys. That, and the amount of ivy growing beneath its wainscotting, and the type of boot scraper by the front door. Certainly, Molly Hooper was no historical architect, but she did rather enjoy the soft, warm, honey coloured stone of the Delaney family pile. Local stone, mined from a quarry just a few miles down the leafy country lanes that had taken over from the monstrous M25 several hours past. Tom's legendary patience had been sorely tested by less than festive fellow drivers, all ignoring rules of the road and general goodwill to their fellow men as afternoon became evening and everyone wanted to be back before reindeer took to the skies that Christmas Eve.

A raggedy, woofing, chattering bundle of black labradors and small children tumble excitedly down the drive, pulling them from frosty darkness into the seductive warmth of a cinnamon and gingerbread scented kitchen, where the glowing heart of a huge, cream-coloured Aga brings the room to life, drying ancient Barbours, wellies and mittens, as well as heating a cauldron of garlic and rosemary scented broth, bubbling softly in epicurean welcome.

"Darlings! Come in, come in! Charlemagne, Lucy, do get down and allow my travel-weary guests time to catch their breaths!"

Unsure as to whether she was addressing hound or child, Molly smiled at the ever bounteous angel who masqueraded daily as Tom's mother, allowing herself to be pushed into a huge, throw-covered squishy sofa and furnished almost instantly with a heavy mug of warming, fragrant liquid, which owed a little of its heat to the Aga, but the majority of it to a 12 year old malt. Hugs and lavish generosity were as constant in the Delaney residence as log fires and fresh flowers at breakfast, and it would be just a little too much for an introverted pathologist had not their unequivocal sincerity and genuine love for each other shone forth like beacons.

"Tom! Molly! Hug me immediately, or I shall simply DIE!"

"Dramatic as ever, Elizabeth?"

"Not a bit of it (plumping down besides Molly, resting her head on her shoulder). Feel my forehead Molly - I am _burning up_ with my pining for you, like the Victorian poets! Like Elizabeth Barrett Browning."

And Molly smiles, falling hopelessly for a charm she could never hope to emulate.

"It's a good job I'm a pathologist then," she says, faux-feeling a perfectly healthy 11 year old's forehead, shaking her own in mock foreboding. "For you are truly not long for this world, Lizzie my love."

Everybody (teenagers included) hugged at the Delaney house, wrapping her up in lavender, pine needles, tobacco, dogs and the great outdoors. Tom's father laughed loud, wore thick corduroy trousers and carried their huge, present-stuffed cases upstairs as if they were packed with mere feathers. His mother laid out a succulent and home-grown feast across a table built for twenty or more, as if she'd merely plopped down a microwavable meal for one ("darling, I simply cannot understand the fuss people make about cooking; it's simply a science, after all!") and the whole clan had descended, picking it clean as efficiently (but far more gracefully) as piranhas in the Amazon Basin when confronted with the drowned carcass of a cow.

And Tom himself: bequeathing his loving and generous nature across his entire extended family, but still reserving the most loving, private and secret glances for her.

"You look as though you're miles away." His eyes crinkle with what could only be recognised to all at the table (and indeed, Molly herself) as deep and adoring love. "What are you thinking about, Mols?"

Staring into the hypnotic flicker of Delaney logs, cut from Delaney forest and burnt in a Delaney Jacobean fireplace, Molly could not see how those flames danced in the darkness of her eyes and how Tom, who had never considered the romantic appeal of a fire before, could now see how truly beautiful it was - through her.

"Bloated cattle corpses," she murmurs, without malice, without censure or thought, and Tom's love-drenched eyes widen slightly, and he loves her utterly, unquestioningly, without understanding her at all.

 **~x~**

Coming up through the the _Grosse Schiedegg Pass_ had furnished me with a surprisingly mild three day window of clear skies and minimal wind chill. Consistent and unpredictable progress is preferable when one is in general avoidance of the populous, but it must be said that those three days before Christmas Eve allowed me, for moments at a time, to believe I was merely a tourist or backpacker making my way across towards Grindelwald for the festivities. However, one's luck can only be measured by its inevitable lack of longevity, therefore I was unsurprised to find low cloud and an invasive east wind biting its way through my scarf and down jacket as I ascended the final 2000 feet out of Sarner Aa and up the imposing granite slabs of the Wellhorn. The lights of Meiringen, although not for me, were nonetheless comforting as I circumnavigated the town high streets in favour of its lesser lanes and darkened alleyways. Shelter was becoming an issue since the mercury was sinking steadily into minus figures, stiffening my worn fingers around rucsac harness and walking poles, and it was with an almost fervent gratitude that I found the old oaken door give way beneath such cold hands as the first crystallised snowflakes began to fall. St. Michel. Fifteenth or sixteenth century at a glance, and clearly one of Meiringen's less popular places of worship, judging by levels of dust gathered on hymn books, poorly populated noticeboard and distinct lack of gas or electricity. Worn and neglected pews, fallen prey to woodworm, nesting birds and random graffiti artists had poignantly stripped away all sense of deity, beauty and possibly of faith from this dilapidated building, but as I struck my flint and set up a discreet flicker of flame within what had once been the vestry, I sensed a quiet dignity as the building prepared to weather yet another battering, with four centuries' worth of storms already assailed. Being alone for so long does often leave me prone to whimsy and fanciful notions which serve as a small distraction, as well as an excuse for Mycroft to take a light mockery at my expense.

" _It is your primary objective to survive the chilling storms of the Brunig Pass Sherlock, not to become introspective with the ghosts of Christmas Past."_

Ah, dear brother; such cold comfort when I need it least.

The low light of my fire give a little more illumination and I accidentally catch sight of my current physical embodiment in a tarnished and filthy pewter bowl (Striations of countless polishings give rise to the theory this was once a much loved church with devout and loyal parishioners). My face is filthy, unrecognisable (much the preferred option currently) with dark, stringy hair hanging lank and dampened over lengthy, uneven stubble, but unable to fully disguise the roughly stitched laceration high on a cheekbone, speckles of dark blood still encrusted around its edges. My left eye still bulges slightly (although vast improvements have been made over the past week or so) and it remains stubbornly bloodshot. Probably need a optometrist. Probably need a maxillofacial surgeon, but beggars are as yet unable to be choosers, and it is very much the battered face of a beggar reflected back at me from the filthy pewter collection bowl, long ago relieved of its contents. I snort a sudden laugh as I contemplate the foolishness of my earlier aspirations - no tourist or backpacker was I, merely a down and out who was most definitely down and almost out of luck. Again.

Lying low is safest, and I roll from my fireside vantage point across to my rucsac. The bread could not be further away from the epicurean indulgences of this bloated season of festivities, but I have eaten little and traversed so far. I am constantly being berated for apparent self-neglect (one would expect a self-imposed European exile with life altering risks to exempt said person from such trivial scoldings, but it seems Mycroft's voice permeates the furthest reaches of what used to be our Empire, admonishing as though it still was). As ever, I reach for my knife. It's battered casing and stiff blades enchant me more so than ever this night, since to use a swiss army penknife in Switzerland affords me a ridiculous degree of satisfaction at this moment. Such indulgent whimsy almost merits a Christmas Eve message to my brother, but we have never been siblings who attend to such slavish marking of the seasons. One day is much as the other, regardless of the importance bestowed by a needy humanity, but I am alone, and may yet spend my final days on this earth in a similar condition, so an uncontrollable urge simmers forth. Unexpectedly swift and decisive, I reach deep into my parka, pulling forth my phone, _A_ phone. It doesn't really matter.

I blame the knife.

 **~x~**

Of course. Of course the harmonious togetherness that bound the Delaney family would manifest itself (especially at Christmas) by conduit of the board game. The classics, naturally: Monopoly, Scrabble, Dominoes and Trivial Pursuit; then the more recent interlopers such as Articulate and Pictionary. If Molly had stood suddenly, stepped across the room and set fire to all of the games, a Delaney would dust off the ashes of Battleships and suggest a rousing game of Charades. Shrieks of hilarity and yells of recognition at family in-jokes that had been handed down through the years in the manner of family silver and auburn hair. Family, thought Molly Hooper... that heart-warming and picture-postcard perfection of English Christmas-tide that emanated from every brick, mullioned window and woven rug of that house was hers now too. She was family (well, almost) and this abundance of riches would envelop her into its hearty, honest and joyous warmth and protection until her dying day if she so desired it.

Tom was there now, standing on one leg and flapping one arm in an attempt at acting out what she'd already guessed was _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. This was ultimately because she knew Tom and his idiosyncrasies so well, rather than his prowess in the arena of mime and parody. She smiled, enjoying the unselfconsciousness of a man who had no secrets (not even in mime), no hidden agenda and no nasty surprises in store, either for now or for all the years to come.

She shivered a little (mullioned windows are pretty but not triple glazed as a rule) but shook it off as Elizabeth Delaney plonked herself down besides her, nearly displacing her box of candied fruits and copy of H.P. Lovecraft short stories (First Edition - Tom's mother had been so very thoughtful) in her pre-teen lack of spatial awareness. Elizabeth instantly rifled through the fruits (everyone shared in this house), thence curling her lip, appalled at the obvious lack of chocolate. They both sat for some moments in companionable silence watching Tom's death throws resulting in a wall of blank faces and shrugged shoulders. Molly Hooper liked Lizzie as such untainted yet unmalicious honesty was sometimes hard to find in a person. Smiling again at Tom, she looked away, finding that her sofa companion's gaze was no longer on her uncle.

"Well, you look seri-"

"Are you ok?"

"Why- of course, Lizzie. Of course I'm ok! Why do you ask? I did hold back with the sprouts this year you know."

But the girl's eyes were dark and serious and Molly felt that chill snake down her spine once more, despite the warmth of the room and the glow of conviviality.

"You look sad." Lizzie's honesty, however unmalicious startled her Aunt-to-be, who had certainly not seen this one coming. "When you think he can't see you (gesturing with a head tilt towards Tom), you look sad. Like you are somewhere else in your head, and that somewhere is a scary place."

Biting down a weird and unbidden panic bubbling up from within her, Molly grinned inanely, hoping for a sudden outbreak of reassuring light-heartedness in her smile.

"Lizzie, it's Christmas. Of course I'm not sad! I'm with Tom, you and the loveliest family on the planet. I have trillions of reasons to be joyful and triumphant!" Weak joke which was deservedly met with the same set, serious expression.

"Don't just say you're ok. That's like Sophie when her Lazenby was put down. She was saying it was for the best and how he shouldn't suffer a moment longer and he was going to a better place- " The gaze remained steadfast, with an additional sheen. Molly clenched her hands, biting down all manner of thoughts she did not want to think.

"-but inside, Molly," Lizzie took no heed of the tiny tear, tremulous on an eyelash, waiting to gather itself, "inside she was dying of a broken heart!" Molly then had no option but to take the girl into her arms and cuddle her close, very aware of the powerful beats of her own heart, pounding in her ears.

"Oh goodness," she breathed platitudes into the girl's soft, strawberry blonde hair. "I'm fine, Lizzie, I really am. Don't worry, don't get upset! Everyone will think I've told you the truth about Santa Claus!" She felt a little tremor of shoulders and knew the worst was over. A small giggle that meant everything.

"I just know what it means," murmured Lizzie Delaney, wise beyond her years and more observant that most. "Looking sad when you think no-one can see you."

And as the shouts to "break out the Cluedo!" rang through from the kitchen, indicating Charades had had its day, Molly felt like shedding a little tear of her own.

 **~x~**

 _Happy Christmas, Molly Hooper. SH_

The text came in a little after eleven when Molly lay in the bath, excusing herself with a headache that wasn't entirely fictitious. Just made it under the wire. Despite very real danger of submerged mobile, she dried her hands and replied immediately.

 _Happy Christmas Sherlock. I hope you've had some kind of festivity today? But then, I know you kind of hate Christmas don't you? MH_

 _I'll have you know I am currently in Church. SH_

 _Goodness! MH_

 _Mycroft prays for that each day. It seems I am less than helpful. SH_

She smiles, ridiculous and knowing it, but it is genuine and unforced and entirely inescapable.

 _I've been playing Cluedo. MH_

Immediately:

 _And I thought my own situation was grim. My condolences. SH_

 _Sherlock, it was fun. If you remember what that feels like. Do you want to know who did it? MH_

 _I already know. SH_

She snorted, almost dropping the phone.

 _Of course you do. Have you had some good food today? MH_

 _An abundance of riches. Please don't tell me Mycroft has been enlisting you. SH_

 _I am massively insulted by that. MH_

 _My apologies. Most humble. Please forgive me. SH_

Once he would have choked on the words, she considers, smiling and smiling - yet tears leak out of her eyes, escape down down into the watery depths of the bath and are swallowed up, like hidden evidence. Once, he was an icon, an idealised creature, a unicorn rather than a real live man with foibles, failings and faults a-plenty. _But now._

Molly finds her tears are falling in silent tracks of sorrow and realisation. _All of your faults Sherlock, all of your imperfections are what make you who you are, because now I really do see you in your imperfect glory and it is perfectly glorious._

Defiantly, she lifts the phone, blinking them away and types:

 _Are you ok? MH (delete!)_

Then,

 _Do you want to play a party game? MH_

 _What do you suggest? SH_

 _I-Spy? MH_

 _Incredible. SH_

 _Why? MH_

 _I did not think it was possible to smile today. Thank you Molly Hooper. And the happiest of new years to you and your loved ones. SH_

Sitting in tepid water, Molly puts down the phone at the side of the bath, since she knows when her time is up.

She always has.


	5. The Things we said when being driven

**Chapter Five: The things you said while we were being driven **

The blood tastes acrid; hot and metallic in the back of my throat, resulting in extremely inconvenient involuntary gagging and choking as I attempt to stem the flow.

This does not a taxi hail.

Overall, this has been a perplexing, taxing and ridiculously unpredictable day, beginning in bubbling, barely suppressed glee and anticipation, and ending in raw devastation and betrayal-

 _(one word Sherlock! That is all I would have needed!)_

-and a cracking of bone and cartilage, of hard tile beneath my head, lapels brought up by tight, angry fists; eyes that cried for me now screwed tight with rage and indignation.

Quite rightly so.

This street has seen its fair share of beatings, robberies, money laundering and cannabis farming (number 45a to be exact) thus taxi drivers are loathe to even pass through its murky environs, let alone pick up bloody faced passengers who clearly had seen better days (face still hollowed out from weeks of semi-starvation; not as common a cause in South East London as an armful of heroin or head full of meth). However, my taxi-luring skills, which had always impressed John Watson far more than they deserved (a little like myself) do not let me down, and within ten more minutes, I collapse gratefully into the back of cab number 1895, my scarf pulled up high and my coagulation complete. A sickening grinding of bone as I tentatively scrunch up my face informs me that Captain John H Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers had not lost his impressive right hook which earnt him both respect and hard cash during his occupancy of Afghanistan.

Mercifully and miraculously, my driver is of the monosyllabic and unfriendly variety which has proven to be the only glimmer of joy in distinctly unappealing evening. Years of semi-solitude and lacking in John's translation of the world has clearly left my judgement impaired regarding my return to London. The euphoria of survival and near incredible unpicking of the Network had perhaps ascribed me an unreliable view of this potential outcome. A tiny voice reminding me of my brother's words of warning is quashed without qualm, and I lean back into the comforting leather of the cab's upholstery, suddenly tired; spent and worn in a way I had never experienced in Meiringen, or Salzburg, or Estonia.

What if John could _never_ forgive me? What if he disappeared from my world as I had disappeared from his; not dead, just gone. He might easily now waltz off into the sunset with the bright haired woman he was so eager (and so nervous) to plight his troth to this very night. She bakes her own bread and seems more than able to please him on several levels, but she is also a liar.

Then again, so am I.

 **~x~**

Being sent home in a taxi because of Sherlock Holmes is becoming far too much of a habit for my liking.

The day before he came started like any other and ended with a locker door mirroring a face so familiar (and simultaneously unfamiliar) that I instinctively slammed it shut and refused to turn to face him. Instead, I made the remarkably mature and well-thought out choice of standing with my back to him, leaning my forehead into cold steel and breathing hard into my chest, with my eyes shut.

Tremendous.

" _Not you."_

" _Hello Molly Hooper."_

" _This… where did you come from? How are you here?"_

" _I came back."_

" _No you didn't."_

I always like to make a good impression.

The day after he came I went to work and set about my work, delighted to be as calm, collected and professional as ever. Until Mike sent me home only two hours into the night shift. He seemed to brook no refusal.

"Molly, you need to regroup. You've had a shock. You are not yourself."

How ridiculous. I am quite myself. I see ghosts of people's past lives on my slab each day. What is one more ghost to add to the list?

The cab pulls away into the lessening evening traffic and I find I am curled, foetus-like, into the corner, resting a hot forehead into padded leather as the pine-scented air freshener swings left and right, mapping out our progression through traffic light, through junction, through roundabout and road works.

" _Not you."_

" _Hello Molly Hooper."_

Thousands of minutes, seconds, moments of my life thinking about the _where_ and the _what_ and the _who-with_ , and as he stood there reflected dark-shadowed and tired, I simply wasn't ready.

" _Not you."_

All those messages, those words. It seemed like so much; enough to lift a heart and make it soar, enough to make all that compares to it seem pale and fictitious against its bright and glorious colour, but in reality, if those words had been broken down into letters and strung end to end, they would not have filled even a page. They were not enough, certainly, to influence so many chapters of a person's life.

But they had.

" _I came back."_

" _No you didn't."_

It was most unfair of me, I know, to expect anyone (let alone a man like Sherlock) to understand how those things we' d said over miles, minutes, hours, days and months had come to mean so much to me. Cocooned in a private, imaginary world of my own design, I had conjured up deep, snowy forests, vertiginous peaks, bustling souks linked by sweltering alleyways and bleak, concrete slums where fear and poverty had crime and degradation as its lifespring. Oh, for a person with a brain of science, I had allowed an intoxicating and powerful draught of romantic idiocy cloud my judgement and warp my common sense, and now reality is biting at my heels as I find myself sent home from work because my hands won't stop shaking (stupidly strong coffee in that canteen most likely).

 _Ping!_

Mike (or Sarah) wanting to reassure me that the lab is fine and dandy in my absence; that my self-indulgent attack of the vapours will never be referred to again and that I should 'take all the time I need' before coming back (usually about twenty-four hours tbh, but the thought was there). I eventually locate the stupid thing at the bottom of my bag, nestling amongst bus tickets and wine gum wrappers (latest addiction since I started running - always so damn hungry) and take ages to open it (stupid hands).

 _John hates me. SH_

The thumping in my chest kicks in instantly, but I am spurred on by a simmering flame this time.

 _I should imagine he does. MH_

A merest of moments.

 _As, it would seem, do you. SH_

Still deducing on all cylinders I see.

 _I don't hate you. I don't hate anyone. MH_ (although I kind of hate myself at this moment).

 _I may have misjudged the measure and delicacy of my return. SH_

Oh God. How bad things must be for Sherlock Holmes to be assuming the mantle of self-doubt.

 _And how did that turn out for you? MH_

 _Gorily. I think I have a broken nose. SH_

 _You probably deserved it. MH_

A pause.

 _Without a shadow of a doubt. I may have lost him, Molly. SH_

In an instant, my eyes swim with hot tears (God, you are so weak, Molly Hooper!) as I know how exposed, open and vulnerable he is to me at this moment…

 _Yes, you may have. MH_

I want to hurt him with the honesty he has always offered me. Truthfully, I want to punish him for what I can never be to him.

 _Alone is what protects you, Sherlock. Maybe alone is what you need right now. MH_

My cruelty takes my breath away, but I am on a rollercoaster and there is no brake.

 _Everyone has had to just get on with their lives while you've been away. Things won't ever be the same again. MH_

My heart is hammering as I sense I am sitting on the branch as I hack it from the tree. There is no reply for thirteen minutes, and I suspect the branch has given way, until my cab turns into the Crescent and my flat is in view…

 _Ping!_

 _You are more than correct. There is a sea-change in the air I did not anticipate, and that is my failing. Apologies for the intrusion. SH_

As I turn it off and savagely caste the phone back into the murky depths of my bag, I realise that if I never hear Sherlock Holmes apologise to me ever again, I could certainly learn to live with it.

In fact, were he here right now in this cab, I myself might even slap his face. Such is the power of love and longing, of disappointment and betrayal.

And I close my eyes.

 **~x~**

The unpleasantness of icy numbness combined with glacial rivulets of meltwater dripping gently into my ears is appalling and unnecessary, but since I have severely decimated my small and select friendship group within a mere twenty-four hours of returning from the dead, I determine a little more effort should be made on my part. I can't see her due to half a kilogram of semi-frozen pulses pressing its curative powers across my stricken gabella, but clinking of plate, glass and cutlery indicates a slightly irritating bustling by way of my landlady.

"See, Sherlock, I told you it would bring the swelling down. I'll bet it feels better already doesn't it?"

"Immeasurably."

Clink, rustle, clink.

"I know you're upset about John at the moment, but he'll come round."

I shuffle the peas across my brow bone, silently praying for sudden onset deafness as an unusual side effect of a punch to the face.

"You've got to understand, dear- " She's right next to me now and I feel Mrs Hudson's kindly hand rest across my own. Perhaps owing to the rigours and emotional seesawing of the day, I don't shake it off, and barely twitch as she carefully removes the bag of peas from my injury.

"- we thought you were dead."

And I see the recent lines etched into her kindly face and feel the weight of my actions once more.

"I'm sorry about your brother-in-law," is all I can say, since my jaw is clenched and throat closed up.

"Oh, that was last Spring! How did you- oh, why am I even bothering to ask?" She smiles, giving me more than I deserve as she gathers a final plate to top off her tray for the kitchen. It is only at the door that she gives pause once more, a query about her brow.

"And only Mycroft knew? Mycroft and - "

"Molly. Molly Hooper."

I speak automatically, hurriedly and she looks at me, silent in her appraisal (perhaps too hurriedly then).

"That poor girl," is her parting shot, shutting the door behind her and leaving me alone with my thoughts.

 _Alone is what protects you._

No.

I stand suddenly (regrettably) and as the pulsing pain and dizziness subsides, I snatch up my phone from beneath the flap of another unpacked bag.

 _You are wrong. People are who protect you. You protected me - with your words. A piece of humanity, like a lifebelt thrown, like a kindness given._ (I pause, blood rushing in my ears, an ache in my chest and an reckless desire to empty myself of … everything). _Anything I have achieved over the past two, terrible years has only been possible because of you. You have ceased the squabbling voices in my head and laid low the terrors of the encroaching dawn with your messages and your generous heart. Thank you Molly Hooper; you have buoyed me up and kept me whole. SH_

I take a shuddering breath, looking down at the flashing message waiting to be sent, and I do not recognise myself, my outpourings, the things I said.

I delete the message, pour a tumbler of whisky and drink it in one go, before lying down on the sofa and passing out for fourteen hours.

It's not the fall that kills you, you see - it's the sudden stop at the end. (Douglas Adams)

 **~x~**


	6. when you thought I was sleeping

**Chapter 6: The things you said when you thought I was asleep**

They say that you will know you are not dreaming if you see a clock. Apparently clocks never appear in dreams.

Sherlock had eschewed such fancies for himself since he vociferously refused to accept dream analysis as a true science, but this did not stop him using such analysis to reveal weaknesses in others. Our frailty is so often rooted in our subconscious, and Sherlock knew his way around the codex of the dream world even though he did not believe, simply because ordinary people _do_. It had frequently proved useful in revealing true intentions and privately held concerns amongst his clientele, whether they'd have liked it or not.

When Sherlock was shot with a projectile that crashed into his chest, tearing along its tract, crushing, compressing and shearing tissue as it went, blood surged into these cavities, depriving a shocked brain and causing a rapid state of unconscious. An oxygen starved brain then proceeded to fire off random, panic-stricken synapses in attempt to make sense of his remaining seconds of memory and cognition. Sherlock cannot now recall such vivid, dying images, but they did feature feelings, memories and thoughts he had locked away in his mind palace until the very day that it was devastated by an assassin's bullet. Since he was shot, Sherlock denies that he dreams of such classic and plebeian scenarios such as being chased, floodwaters, falling, losing teeth, climbing mountains, dying. He's truly had enough of such scenarios in real life.

But dream he does, and Molly Hooper knows this.

 **~x~**

"Molly, this is a terrible line, I can barely hear you!" Sarah Gnezere's Jamaican twang intensifies slightly when she is exasperated. This may be one of those times. Doctor Molly Hooper's pathology lab voice was clear, precise and usefully enunciated, but Sarah felt short-changed in exchanging the latest gossip regarding Sanderson; since when did a mumbled ' _mmmm_ …' ever replace a repulsed and sibilant shriek?

"Sorry."

"Woman - " (Sarah reverting to 'woman' usually heralded stern upbraiding) - "Woman, you cannot seriously greet the knowledge of him having botox for his crow's feet and becoming a member of The _Blue Room Gentleman's Club_ with an _mmmm_! What is wrong with you? This could help us guess his Tinder password for goodness sake!"

Molly Hooper said nothing, for she already knew his Tinder password. She knew everyone's password for everything in her lab because someone she knew had worked them all out. For fun. Or showing off. Or both.

"You are no fun these days, _Cherry Blossom Girl_."

"Well, I changed that password ages ago, " replies Molly. Apparently, it had been far too obvious.

As Molly Hooper padded silently through her flat, she considered her friend's stern judgements and found them… accurate? It was true enough that staff nights out, after work shopping trips, lunchtime patisserie visits (as well as Sanderson baiting) had been… lesser, these days. She no longer watched the latest telly, so water cooler topics were a inaccessible to her. Molly reached into her cupboard, pushing jars and cans aside to find her favourite mug. The kitchen clock ticked heavily, sonorously across her silent landscape, marking her unreality, her untethering from the real world. She stepped softly to the kettle, watching the steam rise in a steady bloom, heralding the boil and misting the face of the clock.

 _A dream is a wish your heart makes…_

Tick, tick, tick.

Molly waters her cacti and rearranges her succulents across her small kitchen window sill. Birds are nesting in the chimneys opposite and there is talk of a good summer next year. Pale pinks tinge the fading sky with a little hope for the day to come before a nightly blanket covers us all and bids us sleep. She rinses her mug, leaving it upturned on a pristine draining board that betrayed a little of her trade and standards of hygiene. Molly yawns, turning to the clock which is counting down her moments into seconds into minutes, before she takes herself from sitting room to bathroom to bedroom for the buttoning of soft, clean pyjamas and brushing of her skeins of hair until they gleam anew, like burnished copper when it is buffed and polished.

Eventually she stands, picking up her ancient alarm clock and winding it as she has done since she was sixteen. It never loses a minute and the pulse and bump of its tiny ticks have soothed her to sleep through many a turbulent night. Through doors, across small landing and into a spare room, already steeped in a darkness which has muted its garish floral paper and cheap chintz curtains, his breaths come long-drawn, steady, peaceful, mingling with the ticks to make the patina of her nightly rhythms. A shaft of faded light from the lamp in the hall illuminates the tilt of his cheekbone and set of his jaw as his head is turned away. A pale hand, relaxed and limp in sleep lays across the quilt, the blue veins of its wrist upturned and vulnerable to the world. His once ruined chest rises and falls in miraculously rhythmic repetition, soothing Molly Hooper more than kind words and childhood alarm clocks. She places the clock beside his bed. She knows when the terrors of the night throw wide his eyes in the sweat-soaked horror of twisted sheets and hammering heart, he will see it and be reassured.

Everyone knows you never see a clock in a dream. Everyone, even Sherlock Holmes knows this.

 **~x~**

Too many bullets.

Returning from two years always running from someone's rifle cross-hairs, straight into the trajectory of a bullet from a woman who was never really born, Sherlock had had enough of guns. In the months leading up until Christmas of that fateful year, he had recovered slowly, laboriously (in his own opinion), lying across his sofa, plucking listless arpeggios across his Stradivarius, watching the days ebb away into chilling autumn rain and grey winter skies. After so many changes, things appeared to have come full circle and settled, strangely reluctant but obdurate, back into place. John had returned, hollow-eyed and closed down; outwardly supportive friend and attentive physician whilst dying inside. After an initial awkward stab at brotherly attentiveness, Mycroft was back in Whitehall, since a country was not going to run itself, and cajoling a petulant and frequently impatient invalid was nothing short of _dull._ And what of Molly Hooper? Denuded third finger of her left hand. Molly was clearly free of the dullard who had been a little over-ambitious in plighting his troth and, since the night of 'alone protects me', Sherlock had been grateful of her brisk and outwardly cheery visits during his convalescence. They had both recovered from the cold-water shock of his return (and his secret aberration before common sense prevailed) and this smiling, new, 'stay-press' Molly still bought him titbits from the morgue but never referred to their secret communications during his hiatus nor called him out on his drug use. The Slap appeared to have added punctuation to that little episode. Thus, all ducks appeared, once again, in a row and a brittle, fragile status quo restored. As soon as his lungs were a little stronger, Sherlock had even felt rejuvenated enough to take a look at Lestrade's bulging back catalogue of cases…

That was, until the nightmares began.

A dog. His dog. Running and running ahead of him, getting further and further away, his hoarse screaming falling on deaf ears as the lorry came closer. As he jolted awake, cold tears tracked down the sides of his face and into a pillow, Sherlock fancied he could still feel the resonant draught of the lorry as it passed his face, inches to spare, and not stopping in time.

A man, tall and angular, like a praying mantis, opening doors, again and again, with the doors getting smaller and smaller in size, like Alice. Within his head, fear escalating as John was further back each time, until he was a tiny speck, running towards the doors, limping and shouting wordlessly.

Then, (of course) a serpent-necked, black-eyed magpie, hopping cheerfully, pecking over corpses which moved, like a moaning, writhing sea of despair. Holding out a bright red shining apple to tempt the bird away, letting it come close, but at the last moment, it would bob its glistening black head and hop away. Further and further. John and Mycroft laughing. Mary lifting a gun barrel and him feeling cold steel burn his face, his chest, his temple… his heart.

"You look like shit, Sherlock. You should be looking better." Molly Hooper, dumping a pile of old Lancet's on the table (several useful references to gum recession after death) doesn't even drop her bag before delivering her esteemed medical diagnosis. He was slumped, stiff-haired and sallow-faced across a half-hearted set of litmus results.

"Mmm...sleep-deprived."

"And that's a problem now because…?"

A red-rimmed eye catches hers and the excuses melt away like sea foam.

"Issues with my amygdala...bad dreams is all. Ridiculous." Raking a pale hand through lank hair, almost vibrating with his need for nicotine.

Molly Hooper looks at him and she lays down her bag.

"You're having nightmares?"

He looks at her, shrugging, pushing away cold coffee. "I could be bound in a nutshell, Molly…"

She is suddenly action itself, picking dropped shoes, cups, papers and striding purposefully towards the appallingly abused Baker Street kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

"Coffee (hot) for you, then I'm going into your bedroom and packing you a bag."

(Snorting in derision) "Ridiculous. The work..."

She turns, incalcitrant, strong, decided.

"You are coming to mine. This needs to stop."

"No-o…"

"Yes Sherlock. Yes."

 **~x~**

Loss, pursuit, fear. All classic themes. All unpleasant. Being buried alive had, however, shaken him almost into catatonia, threatening the most tenuous hold on his reason. She slept with him that night, and the next one, and the one after that, even though sleep was fragile and wraith-like, curling around them both without settling.

"You dream of everyone," comments she, as the pale lights of passing traffic throws shafts of light across her bedroom ceiling. "Am I in your nightmares too?" And he curls around her (still so thin, so damaged) skin cold and sweat-coated.

"No," he breathes, head on her shoulder, her feeling its weight through her tee-shirt. "I never dream of you, Molly."

And she is glad.

 **~x~**

And so.

Molly stands quietly in her tiny, garishly-flowered spare room and watches him breathe calmly. Peaceful. Deep sleep. No REM for at least another sixty minutes. Thank God. Moving forward and putting down her alarm clock, she decides not to risk her bouncy springs and sits down beside the bed, laying her head gently on the duvet near his upturned palm, and this vulnerability chokes her throat with all the unsaid words. All the things we should have said but we never said. All those minutes, hours, days, years.

All that time.

Her voice is barely even there, a sibilant whisper, muffled by goosedown and cotton, but Molly Hooper must verbalise her thoughts for fear of madness. His body is there without its consciousness, and that's ok. She just wants some proximity, however pointless it may be.

"You're going to be OK. This will pass and these horrors will fade. Your subconscious has been hit by a truck - several trucks - it needs to sort things out. And it will. You have such a good heart Sherlock, and you are such a good man. Don't even try to pretend you care nothing for sentimental stuff; the love you have for your people has crossed oceans, forests, mountains and … desperate heartache."

Her little, jittery clock punctuates the darkened space with its steady heartbeat, and curtains shift a little in the breeze. He doesn't stir. It's all good.

"Yeah," she smiles into the duvet. "So you love a good puzzle. Who doesn`t? I myself am quite fond of Sudoku." Molly turns her head to see his upturned hand, still and peaceful. She longs to trace the veins on his wrist, the lines on his palm. What is your future, my love? What is mine?

"One night, Sherlock, you'll turn to the man, the magpie, the lorry in your dreams, and you'll face them off and challenge their right to be there, and that's when you'll take charge. That's what I know, because I am a very clever and well-researched medical doctor, see?"

Molly slowly stands, stiffened in the cooling night and her crunched-up posture. She makes to leave, then turns, seeing the calm in his face and cherishing it.

"I love you," she whispers, voice as light as thistledown. "I'll probably never tell you again, but I'm telling you now."

As the door closes, Sherlock Holmes jolts, turns and opens his pale, clear eyes in the darkness. He doesn't know how long he's been conscious, but the ticking of the clock at his bedside assures him of the reality he now inhabits. His racing heart beats hard in his throat as he breaths in one, deep breath and turns to his phone charging on the bedside table. He types without thinking, then hovers a shaking finger over _send_ , then shifts to _delete_. He does this three more times, until his heart is quieter and he puts down the phone, message unsent and deleted, but each time the words had been the same.

 _I heard you. SH._

 **~x~**


	7. When we were crying

**Chapter Seven: The things we said while crying**

Molly Hooper pushes through the throng on the underground, all going the wrong way and conspiring to stop her getting to her destination.

 _Bloody sales shoppers._

How bloody sodding lovely it must be to have all the time in the world, carrying your crappy little unwanted presents back to the shop some poor sap bought them from only weeks before. _I don't want this useless piece of tat,_ you are proudly saying, _I want its monetary value only_. _The person who bought me this has neither taste nor knowledge of me, my hopes, dreams and deepest needs. Alternatively, even though I have acquired plenty of shiny, new tat in this overblown season of indulgence and greed, I wish to acquire even more merely because there is a big red tag showing its price to be slightly different from last week_. You have been duped, shoppers; either way, the retailers win and you lose. You end up with a house (car, attic, life) full of tat you will never truly need nor cherish, and for this hugely important quest, you are getting in my way; at the turnstile, up the escalator, through narrow doors. You are stopping me from moving as I should; as I _absolutely have to._

Baker Street Station being closed for repairs sees poor Molly scuffing her shins jumping out the way of an aggressive buggy as she dashes out of Regent's Park Station and into Ulster Place. (not really bleeding, just scuffed; no time to stop and check though). Panting and heated, even in the late December frost, she crosses Harley Street as traffic lessens slightly, dodging a bus and turning onto Marylebone Road. She's running now, because she has to get there before he does. She absolutely has to.

Quickly over York Gate and heading towards Madame Tussaud's, she slows her pace a little, sweating in her puffa-coat and muffler, but grateful of the thrice weekly runs around the park (occasionally along this very route too, if truth be told) but not one ounce of enjoyment can be eked from today's exertions; not even a gram. She stands, chest heaving, pulling off her scarf and waiting gratefully for the traffic at Allsop Place, in order to breathe… breathe in the freezing air that cools her cheeks and chills her windpipe. A minor miracle then - a taxi pulls in directly across from her, a man alighting. Before even his change is given, she enters the cab from the other side, almost falling into its heated interior.

"Please...Baker Street...221B. Hurry, please, if you can."

 **~x~**

The day was only eight hours old when she received his text. A rare day off had seen Molly Hooper still in bed at 8 am, musing on getting up to make a cup of tea with honey and how nice that would be if only there had been some honey left.

 _Ping._

 _Molly, go to Baker Street. I need you to do something for me. SH_

Oh gracious, what would he need this time? She wasn't in work, so wouldn't have any access to…

 _Go to Baker Street_

 _Go_

Not _come_ to Baker Street.

 _Where are you? MH_

 _You must get there between 9 and 10 am. Not earlier or later. I need you to pick up some things. SH_

 _Sherlock, what's happened? It's Boxing Day. Are you not at your parents'? MH_

A few minutes, then-

 _Can you do this for me? SH_

 _Yes. MH_

 _Good. Thank you. SH_

She sighed, looking down at the phone in her hand, since she knew this was bad.

 _What do you need? MH_

 **~x~**

Fumbling his spare key into the unfamiliar lock, Molly found herself face to face with Sherlock's landlady as the door eventually opened.

"Oh!"

"Sherlock said you were coming. John can't get in to see him." She had clearly been tearful.

"Is it ok if I - ?"

"It isn't good, is it dear?"

Molly looked upon her with gentle eyes; a few moments wouldn't make any difference and she still had twenty minutes before ten o'clock struck. She wouldn't lie to this lady. She shook her head.

"No. Not good. May I - ?"

 **~x~**

Molly scanned the room in helpless near panic. She had to control her breathing and calm herself if she was to find the items Sherlock had listed. The violin was an easy find, but the case less so, spotted eventually under a pile of newspapers in the corner of the kitchen. Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway but did not offer her assistance; Sherlock had asked Molly Hooper to find and take away his most precious belongings before Mycroft's 'clean-up crew' arrived to strip Baker Street of all that was Sherlock Holmes, and both women knew it would be Molly Hooper alone who did it. This, however, did not stop the landlady offering helpful suggestion from her post-

"The skull - under the tea cosy. John and I like to move it around a little… you know…"

"The slipper is full of cigarettes, so be careful. He thinks he can give up, but he can't... "

Stuffing his favourite microscope into a holdall, Molly looks up from her frenetic searching (ten minutes to 10) to speak, but Mrs Hudson had gone. It was so fast. Her heart was racing, beating wild and painful from a hideous cocktail of exertion and fearful panic. Will I ever see this room again? What will happen to that chair? That Union Jack cushion? That buffalo head? Sherlock's desk, stacked with papers, his chair pushed back as though he had merely left the room for a few moments. His dressing gown hung limp and empty from the back of his open bedroom door and it was all she could do to not grab it and hold it tight to her face…

No. She couldn't afford this ill-timed sentiment. Grabbing the small battered swiss army pen-knife from the coffee table, she zipped her holdall and raced down the stairs, taking the back entrance through Mrs Hudson's kitchen as he had suggested. There was no sign of her, and Molly was glad since there were no more questions she could answer.

Rounding the corner, puffa-jacket hood pulled up, hat pulled down, Molly catches sight of a sleek, black car gliding almost silently along the front of the terrace whilst she skirts the rear. Turning left into a crowded side alley and pressing herself and the holdall into a doorway, she feels sick, exhausted and slightly ridiculous. Sweat prickles from beneath tightly packed layers of shirt, jumper, coat, muffler, hat and Molly Hooper steadies her breathing, watching it plume high and light in the morning air.

"Oh Sherlock," she whispers up after it, "what have you done?"

 **~x~**

My brother is unable to look at me, skirting the room and interacting with officials in my presence without acknowledging it ( _look what a mess you've made; I suppose it's up to me to tidy it up again_ ) but I can still deduce that he has dressed in an unfamiliar bedroom, sacked one (two) of his staff this very morning and has, after fourteen years' abstinence, taken up smoking once more. I am more than certain these acts have all been precipitated by me and my recent foray into execution. I know he is attempting to save me from my fate (or at least alleviate its severity) but I also know how futile his attempts shall be and the outcome that awaits. The modern world entertains a harsh and changeable landscape, but a cabinet official cannot be seen to allow his kin to get away with murder. Why, England would fall.

On my (escorted) way to the lavatory, I pick-pocket a besuited lackey's phone and sink into a corner, jammed between sink and water tank as he waits impatiently outside.

 _Is it done? SH_

 _Sherlock? MH_

 _Temporary phone. SH_

 _Oh Sherlock. MH_

 _Yes. It seems I've broken the circle of trust. Thank you Molly, you have risked so much for me once more. SH_

 _I was glad to. Whatever has happened, I will always be glad to. MH_

 _I rather think this time your loyalty shall be too greatly compromised, yet I am far too much of a coward to risk your loss just yet. SH_

Our exchange is rapid, hurried by necessity and hurtling quickly into uncharted waters. I sit, cramped in the cold, small cubicle, not knowing how long I have left but desperate somehow, to continue. I find I am clutching at the stolen mobile like a junkie with his last fix. Maybe I am. The muted buzz startles me.

 _Always, Sherlock. That is how it is for me. MH_

I have been so very numb since I shot a man at point blank range the night before, snuffing out every thought, every idea, every memory or moment of joy he had ever had with barely a moment's contemplation. I had ended a life after it had taken almost 600 million breaths upon the planet and I had decided when the last one should be. I imagined it might be many more days, weeks or months before the magnitude of this caught up with me, but suddenly, my legs feel weak.

 _Molly, please give my violin to John. The rest you can hide, burn or sell. SH_

I do not wait, for I can hear impatient footsteps shuffle outside the door.

 _Please keep the Swiss Army knife though. SH_

 _No. It's yours. I bought it for you that Christmas. MH_

Ah, that Christmas, so many million years ago. Cruel, hateful words and the shock of realisation, the courage and strength of Molly Hooper first noticed and first respected. Her beautifully wrapped gift, a pen knife that has travelled to the edges of a vast criminal empire and back again; battered, bruised and bent out of shape, but an essential lifeline in so many cold and hostile places. I had owned it for three weeks before discovering the spoon attachment and reading the words she had had engraved about its bowl:

 _Black, two sugars. X_

 _I need you to keep it for me Molly. SH_

 _No. MH_

 _It's yours. MH_

 _I gave it to you. MH_

A rough knock shocks me loose from the desolation that traps me, holding me hostage much like these four walls. I type rapidly, but find I cannot see through stinging tears that spill forth without warning.

 _I know. It was perfect. That is why it is now yours. SH._

And the door bursts open in a shock of staggering feet and splintered wood.

 **~x~**

Mycroft Holmes has the patrician face of a Roman senator combined with the moral compass of Prince Machiavelli himself. As undisputed master of the inscrutable, it is believed by his own employees that, as in the Hans Christian Anderson story, he has a chip of ice where his heart should be. It perhaps then should be noted that his longest serving assistant Anthea passes him a sizeable glass of whisky when he emerges from seeing his brother after the guards had taken away his phone.

And he drinks it down in a single swallow.

 **~x~**

Mary Watson does not allow advanced pregnancy, the cold strong breeze chasing through London streets, nor recent horrifying events slow her progress up the three flights of stairs. She rests a little more than previously, but rounds the newel post on each landing like the consummate professional she has always been. Keys (or lack of them) has never slowed Mary either, and she opens Molly Hooper's door as simply as if she had had a Yale in her hand. She finds the flat's sole occupant within seconds of entering and hesitates for not one single moment before pulling her up from the kitchen table she sits at and holds her tight against the drum of her belly and the fur collar of her coat. She holds her until the crying has ceased and only residual sobs remain, then sits her on the sofa, handing hot, disgustingly sweet tea (not honey, only sugar left) and waits until she has drunk every single sip of it.

Mary Watson hands Molly Hooper a napkin that appears to be stamped with the name of a well-know Whitehall caterers, but neither of them comment, and Molly is grateful for its sturdy composition as she mops at her ruined face.

"You give up on him and I'll bloody well kill you."

"God, Mary…"

"Shut up - you know I mean it."

Moments tick by. Molly hiccups and dabs a little more at her stinging eyes.

"This time - _this time_ \- "

She can't go on.

"It isn't over until it's over Molly."

"But it is."

Bright blue eyes, spiky-lashed and utterly ruthless. Mary steps across and sits down heavily, taking in Molly Hooper with her bloodshot eyes and heart three sizes too big.

"I would not have taken you," she begins, quiet and calm, "for a person who let go of what they wanted."

Molly meets her gaze.

"Wanting isn't having, Mary. So much time wanting, but I know what's real and what's not."

Mary heaves herself up, tilting her head in almost casual contemplation.

"My darling girl," she says brightly, smiling wide. "You've always had him, right from the start. The rest of us all know that."

So they sit silently as the rising wind lifts washing lines and rattles letter boxes, knowing that the calm is over.

 **~x~**


	8. With no space between us

**Chapter Eight: The things we said with no space between us**

I am bundled into a corner of the huge Daimler (ridiculous waste of taxpayer's money) which sweeps majestically (heroically?) from the airfield like a knight on a white charger, its rescue mission complete. I suppose then, that would make me the damsel in distress? No matter. I am high as a kite on a cocktail of selected barbiturates and it seems my past, in the form of a madman, has returned to haunt me. Or save me. Call it what you will.

But at this moment, I am carefree, bright, floating above my own self, and it is glorious.

 **~x~**

' _...and I want to tell you everything,_

 _The words I never got to say_

 _The first time around…'_

My phone is flooding my brain with music as I slam my adrenalin-fuelled body through Marylebone Park that evening. _Thud, thud, thud;_ feet punctuate the notes and melodies, and I want sensory overload. I want no space for musings or thought.

' _...Yesterday I thought I saw your shadow running round_

 _It's funny how things never change in this old town_

 _So far from the stars….'_

It is cold. Hardy perennials foolish enough to be showing their leaves through the winter soil are frosted thick with crunchy white edges for their troubles. The park's smooth, wide, runner-friendly pathways glitter treacherously in the weak sunlight of this late December afternoon. A misjudged step or hesitant timing would do little good in such uncertain terrain, and it is always better to be ready for the fall, even before it arrives.

 _...and I remember everything_

 _From when we were the children playing in this fairground_

 _Wish I was there with you now…_

 _Thud._

Dog walkers, pram pushers, older people, linking arms and smiling; enjoying their time with their people and looking forward to the new year. Smiling children, trying out Christmas favourites, unworried by frosted walkways and crunchy grass, and cycling, scootering, roller-skating about me in energetic bursts of magical childhood energy.

 _Thud._

Blood pounds hard, fighting through cold, jaw-aching air and the hefty weight of my heart. But my head is a vacuum of thoughts that used to live there and all I see is the frost reflected on the path ahead and the clear, breathless blue of the sheltering sky, covering everyone on this sad little planet. My feet hit the earth in relentless, arrogant rhythm - you can send all the terror messages you like, but I will still be here, _not fearing you._

Abruptly, however, a melodic and instantly recognisable refrain cuts through the song, announcing a text message, and my heart lurches, making it hard to breathe back into my pattern. I stupidly think I can ignore it and continue in my shiny new frozen bubble, but of course, I can't, and when, ripping out earbuds, I read it, I am so physically winded I find myself in the ridiculous position of leaning against a tree and dipping down my head.

 _Coming back. Don't go away. SH_

I stand slowly, determined to run off the shock. Determined never to cry over anyone or anything like that ever again. But my legs are useless, jelly-like, flaccid. I cannot make proper purchase with the ground. I stumble, but walk quickly, blindly.

 _Ping._

 _Where are you? SH_

I stop again, leaning against the bandstand, oblivious to the dogs chasing each other after a ball, right in front of me.

 _I have to stop running Sherlock. MH_

Immediately:

 _So do I. SH_

And sealed back into my vacuum, I straighten, square my shoulders and turn around. I am fearless, I am strong and I am bloody well going home.

 **~x~**

Night falls quickly when you're not looking.

Ebbing violets and indigos of a darkening sky lower speedily over the city outline and tinges of honeycomb coloured cloud cling at the edges of the day as the sun disappears. Since walking resolutely out of the park, I find suddenly that bustling streets encountered on my outward journey have thinned considerably and only the occasional couple or muffled up individual passes me, rushing home through twilight to hearth and home. My pace quickens, both to compensate for the dip in temperature whilst seeming to pander to the tightening ball of anxiety in my stomach. Hostility towards sales shoppers seems aeons, light years away as owners pull down noisy metal shutters, carry in display carts and set alarms as I pass by. Still in semi-holiday mode, London is closing early and (most likely) going off to the pub.

Coincidentally, as I pass _The Blue Goose,_ a group of men jostle each other into sudden, raucous laughter, tumbling from its depths into the street ahead of me. As my heart leaps and adrenaline courses through, I quicken my pace and realise two things:

Bizarrely, the last two men on earth I would expect to see now both reside in my home town.

And I only used to date one of them.

 **~x~**

I don't start running again until I cross on the corner near the derelict Post Office. Down and outs often sleep in its sheltered portico and whilst I always feel pangs for their plight, I could do with avoiding all huddled up shapes and unpredictable dark shadows.

 _(Did you miss me?)_

The sky is now completely dark and street lights have bloomed into full florescence. However, thanks to the economising cost-cutting of my inner London Borough, only the main thoroughfares are adequately lit and most side streets remain on subdued, money-saving illumination, which a person of my acquaintance had previously described as _'Anderson-Wattage` (ie: dim)._ Looking round for the comforting light of a taxi or bus is of little use as runners have few pockets, and my own are empty of cash or means to get any.

I pick up the pace as I turn into my own street. The bin men are on Bank Holiday hours, therefore evidence of a hundred present wrappings and turkey leftovers line the road, crammed into piled high wheelie bins, their black rubbish bags rising up in darkened hillocks _(all the better to scare you with my dear…)_ as I jog by. A sudden scuffling under a bin (a rat?) evokes beads of sweat prickling out from hot cheeks and burning forehead, and a yammering, racing heartbeat. I am full on running now on high alert, but as I see my doorway, I know the most dangerous time is upon me. A slowing of my resolve whilst I fumble for my key, hot sweaty hands attempting to gain purchase with a rattling lock barrel ( _"I've seen better security on a Wendy House, Molly Hooper"_ ) could be the moment arms reach out from shadows, a gloved hand over my face, my eyes covered and darkness descending…

 _(Well, did you?)_

It is then that I feel the weight of my phone in my jacket pocket - dense, cold metal; a wormhole to sanctuary as all around me is silent, bristling with a palpable and burgeoning threat. Ramming in my hand I pull it free, finding a lit up screen and blinking message (I had silenced it after that text - of course I had to) which I sweep open as I near my stoop.

 _Molly, don't fear the shadows. I am the shadows. SH_

And my face, blue and illuminated looks up as a shadow steps out of the darkness of the street, its silhouette more familiar to me than my own - a breadth of shoulder and a billowing coat and arms that reach out in protection, shutting out cold, shutting out fear. I feel cool wool against the heat of my face but his body heat leaches through a thin shirt as I am enveloped inside the wings of his Belstaff; a moth to the flame.

"Hello, Lazarus," I say, all cognition given up to sensation. "Are you on your way home?"

I feel the rumble in his chest, vibrations from his larynx, as he speaks to me; a voice I thought I would never hear again.

"I am home," says Sherlock Holmes, and I smile.

 **~x~**


	9. The things we said after you kissed me

**Chapter Nine: The things we said after you kissed me**

* * *

' _And I want to tell you everything,_

 _The words I never got to say_

 _The first time around…'_

* * *

If my brother thought it bad form that I should disappear once more from his guardianship the moment I was rescued from my suicide mission, he had more grace than to reprimand me for it. It may have been my _list_ (shockingly close to the bone, I'll admit), or perhaps a long overdue visitation of filial sentiment (much in the manner of Mr Scrooge this festive season) rearing its ugly head at long last - who can tell? Suffice to say, a curt nod rather than an armed guard was my greeting as I entered his ridiculously over-furnished office at The Diogenes Club the next day. Clearly wishing to waste no time, one of his lackeys had emailed all data regarding the Moriarty broadcast the evening before (complete with footnotes and observations added by Mycroft himself).

Big brother is _concerned._

"Tea?" He nods to another lackey, stiff-backed and upper-lipped by the door, and so cheerful am I, I actually deign to accept. A momentary rise of an overarched brow telegraphs his surprise, but it barely lasts a moment before realisation (deduction is far too grand a term for such easy pickings) sets in.

"How charming," he murmurs, sickly smile ghosting across pursed lips.

"Meaning?" I am fully aware of his meaning, but enjoy his slightly derisive and laser-sharp dissection of me. He enjoys it so, and who am I to begrudge him? He let me back in, after all.

The tea arrives on a highly polished silver tray (Georgian, not hallmarked, polished daily by a left-handed Roman Catholic smoker) and steam from the aged but beautiful pot scrolls peacefully into the stillness between us. Three shortbreads artfully arranged across Crown Derby suggest another shall be joining us, but I bide my time, since happiness has curled about me (much as the steam) and softened the sharpness of the world into something more palatable.

"I did warn you," counters he, watching me without appearing to look up from the pot he is pouring from.

"So many times, I couldn't possibly narrow it down to a singular instance." I accept a tea cup as he volleys back. Oh, cat and mouse, how I have missed you lately.

"About getting _involved_ , Sherlock." The eyebrow again. "Although I must admit, it rather suits you."

I take a sip. Annoyingly perfect.

"I did assume you had brought me back to tackle _the 'M' Conspiracy_ , Mycroft. Are you making polite conversation?"

He smiles. Reptilian. Omniscient.

"Hardly. Quite impertinent, if truth be told. I take it you have barely glanced at the email sent last night? You look _exhausted_."

Truthfully, I skimmed it during the car journey over here, and precious little was new to me. I was, however, not about to stop our little back and forth, so reached across for a shortbread and bit into it, never leaving his gaze.

"Eating? Dear me, brother of mine, this is more serious than I had previously… anticipated," murmurs he, and I smile, vulpine through crumbs and sweetness. Then, as ever, Mycroft manages to surprise me, this time with the utterly unexpected blow of … sincerity.

"Go home. Eat, sleep, Sherlock. Be as the goldfish, and return tomorrow, refreshed and invigorated." He nods towards the door, sickly smile gone and a genuine, brotherly caste to his expression. "And give my regards to Doctor Hooper - " he lifts the plate of biscuits from the tray. "As well as the shortbread, with my compliments."

And I do.

 **~x~**

 _I'm wearing your dressing gown. MH_

 _How enchanting. Which one? SH_

 _The green one. I may go as far to say that it is all I am wearing. MH_

 _I see. SH_

 _I may or may not be draped across your sofa in it. MH_

 _The door is unlocked too. MH_

 _Your recklessness both shocks and delights me. I am ten minutes away. SH_

 _I need you to know bad things are going to happen in this dressing gown. MH_

 _Molly Hooper, you also must know that bad things have already happened in that dressing gown. SH_

 _Oh. MH_

 _It's John's. SH_

 **~x~**

The physical longing for another is both delicious and distracting in equal measure.

I find myself suspended in an eternal and insatiable carapace of hunger and yearning, fuelled by itself and worsened rather than satiated by repetition. I am imprisoned and mocked by my desires and appetites, and find myself unashamed and freed in the same instance.

An infuriating juxtaposition of death blows to a man in the midst of the crime of his life.

However, I find these days that (rather than dulled) every single thought and action is heightened by an exquisite sensitivity. I am, for the first time, in step with the world, and see it bright and bounteous. Everything is clear, sharp and awaiting my dissection.

Daily, progress is made and people are being urged from their hidey holes (with spurious persuasion from certain quarters), and nightly I race back home, to be enveloped and devoured. There must be connections: so much; never enough.

"I must apologise," I am breathless, burning, moving, touching. "This is not how I expected to be."

She curls a hand around the back of my neck; cool, soothing, desirous. She laughs, breathless also.

"That you had any expectation at all is astonishing, my love." She draws my mouth down to hers and it is hopeless.

"I am both thirsty and drowning," I breathe after she kisses me, and the heat of her burns through my skin and her mouth is honey, dripping from the comb. We twist and turn across a churning sea of our own making.

"I love you," I breathe, soft like velvet into the darkness of her smile.

And I decide I know a siren when I see one.

 **~x~**

 **Epilogue**

* * *

' _Over and over, the only truth,_

 _Everything comes back to you.'_

* * *

 _Three years later._

221C has absolutely no mobile reception. This is the only flaw in the perfect jewel that is Sherlock Holmes' basement-located, purpose built laboratory.

Every top quality magnetic stirrer, dry block heater and rotary evaporator; every homogeniser, vacuum and centrifuge that money could buy glitters resplendent in its subterranean cavern. No more kitchen sink dramas with acid, no more cocky medical students refusing to hand over his favoured Leitz, no irritating _people_ getting in the way of science.

Well, perhaps one or two people.

Sherlock looms over his microscope. He has saved the best for last, since this slide is more than likely to have the composition of cells that would be the decider. He adjusts the overhead light (blue light, perfect for this task. Other types of lighting quality are also available) and remembers just in time to push his goggles back through his hair to see through the eyepiece. Both the coarse and fine adjusters had been recently calibrated and it was a true pleasure to use an instrument as well tuned as this one. Leaning forward, he is abruptly startled by a most un-finely tuned crackle of static, cutting through the calming hum of laboratory lighting.

But Sherlock does not frown in irritation, or even sigh, and he carefully lays down the slide and makes his way across the room towards the intercom.

"Hello. Who is this?"

 _(Crackle)_

Sherlock taps the top of the wall-mounted device sharply, and the static settles down.

"Hallo!" A tinny yet brightly laced chirrup issues forth, and Sherlock finds he can do nothing but smile.

"Ah," he replies. "Good afternoon. And how are you today?"

"Good!" Sharp, staccato and to the point. Obviously. "I am good!"

Then:

"What are you doing?" comes the voice, so distorted as to sound alien and robotic, but Sherlock is enchanted (as well he might be).

"I am incredibly busy and doing extremely important things."

"Oh!"

"In fact, in my hand I have a set of microbes which hold a man's life in the balance."

"Ooh!"

"Indeed. Science will show us the way. I have always told you how reliable science can be in these matters."

"Yes!"

"Then I must go and see what it can tell me. I am sure you understand. I will see you very soon."

"Yes!"

Sherlock leans into the wall, his smile still evident and his bright, shiny new heart glowing stronger than any type of light he can think of.

"Goodbye then," he says.

"Bye bye Daddy," come the words right back at him. "See you later."

 **THE END**


End file.
